Sugar and Smoke
by touchstone12
Summary: Thomas Shelby has just lost his wife, Grace, to a Russian assassin. He misses her terribly, and now he also has a son to raise on his own in a world full of treachery and loss. Suddenly he falls headfirst into a confounding romance with a young rebellious woman by the name of Bianca Amory. Cold and full of dark promise, she invokes a new world of beauty and quiet wonder for him.


As the light from the moon shifts, and the shadows deepen and lengthen in their respective corners, Tommy moans in sleep, a cold sweat clinging to his skin like a cloak of anxiety. He knots up the sheets in his fists, but the pain is only a stark glimmer now, for in sleep only the aches of mind persist.

In this dreamscape, he dances with ghosts, somehow managing to hold a woman's hand in his, twirling her as if she were a delicate doll of glass, instead of smoke and mist. Clad in red and a dusting of glitter, her pale face alights between the curve of arms, as she spins and catches his eyes between turns. He hasn't danced like this in so long, with such abandon and euphoria. The room is dark and smokey, and the fires of candles are a dim blur, winking at him as they glide down the hall.

They have drifted into a private hall, the chatter of the other guests faraway, deserted apart from a single minstrel playing an elaborate fiddle, a slow sad tune that rings a memory in Tommy's mind, one that he cannot immediately place but that imprints its nuances into his mind. He laughs through the fog of nostalgia that clouds his vision. "You seem happy," the woman whispers, now halting her spins to draw closer to him. Her gold locks gleam bright and lethal in the faint lighting of the corridor.

"Happy," he repeats, the word barely a breath. He spins her in a circle. "I've missed you, Grace." He's holding her small soft hands in his, her fingers sending comfort and warmth pulsing through his body. It's all he feels.

She smiles. Her eyes are brighter sapphires than the one that blew out her life. The one that had once lay snuggled between the perfect curvatures of her collarbones. "And... Charles?" Liquid diamonds shine in her eyes.

Thomas tries to swallow past the lump in his throat but finds that he can't. It's too hard, and he's choking on his words. Their dance has come to a standstill, and the music fades to a dull throb.

"He used to call out for you in the night, but he's stopped now. As if he's…" Tommy pauses, unable to continue. He eyes her, his bleak, hers quiet and curious. He wonders suddenly if this is one of Tatiana's seductive games, but then denies this thought immediately, for Tatiana had left many months ago, run off with her cruel beauty and her cursed jewels.

"As if he's forgotten me."

But the words have transformed, have become more garbled and charred, a mixture of grating stone on stone and the burning coal of factories.

"_As if he's forgotten me." _

Tommy hasn't forgotten. How could he forget the horrors he'd faced in the war? His mind has taken far greater wounds on those fateful, faithless days than his body.

It's like this sometimes. The war speaks to him in a voice made up of streaking gunshots.

"_As if he's forgotten me."_

_I have not forgotten. I never will. _

He breaks away from Grace's hold, and the confusion in her eyes is searing.

"Tommy?"

"_Tommy?" _

_Thud. Thud. _

Thomas rips his eyelids wide open to a dull light pouring in through the green curtains, and to the sound of someone impatiently banging on his door.

He rubs his eyes. "Quiet!" He yells as he wipes at tears. He releases a heavy breath, gets to his feet, and yanks the door open. John stumbles a few feet back, rubbing at his nose.

Thomas straightens, and raises an eyebrow, hands behind his back.

"It's Curly," John says, his heavy Birmingham accent muffled with the influence of a hefty morning's drink at the Garrison. "Faithless Daze just arrived in Carlton's box. She's throwing a real fit."

"Too much for our best horseman?"

"Well-"

"I'll be down in a few minutes," Thomas says before he shuts the door.

He marches to his nightstand, grabs the crystal bottle of Irish whiskey, and pours a glass.

_Perhaps John has the right idea, _he thinks, taking a contemplative swig.

When Thomas finally arrives at the courtyard nearest to the Garrison, he finds a rather odd and unexpected scene unfold around him. Curly is trying desperately to hold onto the reins of a beautiful dappled grey horse as it rears and kicks at anything or anyone standing too close. Meanwhile, John is standing off to the side drinking some more whiskey, and Arthur, the oldest Shelby brother, is aiming a rifle at the horse, hollering, "Fock off Curly, let me get a clear shot at her, ey!"

Tommy takes a moment to appreciate the crisp, smokey Birmingham air and walks to the middle of the courtyard, flicking his half-smoked cigarette into the damp ground. He then strides to Arthur, who immediately turns the gun onto him. When Arthur realizes who is standing before him, his eyes widen and he drops the gun to his side.

"Oi, Tommy!" he exclaims and suddenly Thomas is engulfed in a ribcage-crushing hug. He pulls back immediately and points at Arthur.

"You and John best get back to the Garrison, Arthur, or I swear it, I will shoot you with that focking gun. And I won't regret it either, as I'll be having the full share of the profits."

"Tommy, that 'orse will get you hurt, she will. She'll trample you underfoot, and how unfortunate would that be? If the great Thomas Shelby, the greatest gangster in all of Birmingham, was killed by a fucking horse, when no one else could ever do you in?"

"I have no intention of being 'done in.' And I also don't want to see that horse's guts strewn across this courtyard. Fuck off, Arthur."

"Ey, better your guts than hers. It'd be a relief," Arthur says, chuckling to himself. He grabs John by the scruff and hauls him towards the Garrison. Thomas watches their receding forms before he shakes his head and turns around. The horse is still snorting with rage, a wild beast from Hell itself. Like Tommy. It's grey, like ash. A broke horse.

"Curly, give her to me," Thomas says, and takes the reins.

"Careful, Tommy, she bites. She doesn't like it here. It smells like smoke and fire."

"It's alright Curly, I got her. Go fetch Miss Carleton." Curly ambles off as Thomas strokes the grey's mane. "Ashen, we'll call you." He didn't much like the name Faithless Daze. It made her sound slow and stupid. The horse snorts, pawing at the ground. "Hello, hello" he whispers to her. "You're thinking of a better place, aren't you? Me too," Thomas sighs. They're in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by mist and sorrow. She doesn't like it here, in the damp and cold.

Ashen calms as Thomas continues to stroke her, firm but soft pats. She leans forward to nuzzle him and Thomas gives her small, soft smile. But then he freezes. The eerie feeling of being watched overcomes him, and he surreptitiously glances about him. There. There's a woman eyeing him. Dark hair, flowing freely down to her shoulders. Ratty, plain clothing, grey and black to match the surroundings. He catches her eyes. He can't discern their color from the distance but he thinks she's glaring. She's young, and underneath the baggy clothing, Thomas suspects she's quite slender.

Tommy stares her down, but she doesn't look away. She's just at the edge of a factory, peeking at him from around the corner. _Look away, _he wills her. She raises a dark eyebrow, as if she could read his thoughts, and suddenly there's a smile on her face. It isn't a playful smile though, no, it's a smile filled with spite and cunning. She's fiddling with something in her hands. It glints in the bare light, like a knife.

Before Thomas can react, she dips her head in sarcastic acknowledgement, and turns on her heel, disappearing into the smoke.

_Who is she? _Thomas has never seen her before. He frowns, as he starts to lead Ashen in the opposite direction. Clearly, she doesn't like him all that much.

"It appears we've got an unfriendly shadow, Ashen."


End file.
